


People Run in Circles

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Wrong Names
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 14:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kink Meme Fill. Prompt: Petyr is a master player and during the daylight he teaches Sansa all she will need to know - but at night, in the candlelight, he seems at times to honestly forget who she is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	People Run in Circles

She swishes the wine around the goblet and regards the color with an apprising eye. It was good—better wine than she had during the war, certainly. It was strange to reach adulthood and realize what you had been missing out on all these years. Her tongue was still not quite used to it.

 _And you could say that about more important things than wine,_ she thinks with a bitter smile that she surpasses as she looks across the council table. She catches Petyr’s eye and allows herself a momentary ripple of pleasure when she sees approval there.

“That will be all,” Sansa says in her clipped lady’s tone. “You may leave. Lord Baelish, see my back to my chambers.” The others’ rise in unison and when they go, she relaxes back into her chair, shoulders heavy.

Petyr slides up to her, his mouth a crooked line. “You did well.”

“Did I?” she tries to keep the need out of her voice. “I feel as though I ran to the Gates of the Moon and back. How am I suppose to control the North when the Vale tries me? If Harrold…” she trails of, voice catching despite herself. The part she played in that still sickens her, though Petyr had done everything in his power to ease her through it.

“They adore you,” was all she got in response. Sansa looks at him with the same eyes she regarded the wine and wonders how much his desire blinds his judgment.

“Adoration is all well and good, but I must act.” She sets down her goblet and stares intently at the tabletop. “What shall I do?” she whispers, almost to herself. The idea is distasteful and the words practically tumble off her tongue, but Petyr’s advice has brought her this far, has kept her safe is not unspoiled.

He takes a seat at her side and grips her hand. “You tell me.”

She pauses, thinks. “We do nothing. We observe.”

“And what did you see?”

She raises one brow and cocks her head toward the edge of the table. “The lord sitting there has no love for me and less for you. I could see in the way he responded—never first, but never last. He would not be the first to agree, because he doesn't, but he did not want to be seen as the last.” She smiles, slightly. “He thought to throw us off.”

Petyr returns her smile and reaches to caress a tendril of her hair. “Well then. We must be careful.”

“I’m always careful.”

“Of course you are. But some paths require more support than others.” With that he stood and offered her his arm.

\----

He’s not gentle that night, nor does she particularly want him to be. He shoves her against the rough stone wall of her chamber the second the door is closed. Her teeth and nails soon find purchase, as if she can rid herself of all the pent-up frustrations of court.

His hands are up her skirts, pushing aside her smallclothes, fingers finding their mark. Sansa arches into him, all traces of refinery gone. “My queen,” he whispers into her neck when he finds her wet. She not a queen, not yet, not to anyone but himself, but on his lips the words sound so right that she can’t help but luxuriate in the sound.

She pushes him gently towards her bed and they fall on it in a mix of hands and silks. They slide her out of her dress easily enough and he leans back to look at her, taking in the rise of her breasts and curves of her hips as though it is the first time, hands ghosting up and down her sides. Sansa allows him to have his fill but when the silence gets to be too much she reaches for his breeches, freeing his cock. She wraps her legs around him and draws him down into her, still half-clothed.

He fills her quickly—she is almost ashamed at how truly wet she is—and for a few moments the only sounds in the room are their breathing and the rustle of sheets. Sansa closes her eyes and lets the sensation run over her, trailing her fingers along his slender back. He’s smaller than Harry, and Harry was just as experienced, but she never found this level of pleasure in his embrace. She thinks it’s the reality of power, and everything that has been given to her with his lips and his hands, no matter how much they have sickened her.

The room is so silent that she almost swears she mishears him when she hears him moan “Cat” into her hair.

Her heart skips, as it always does, and as she always does she rests her lips at his ear and pretends. “That’s it, yes, Petyr…”

When this first happened she had been taken aback, and his glazed look had told her all she needed to know—it wasn’t an act. In bed, hair in front of her face, she began someone new.

She had pushed him away that time, but the years had done away with the shock. It was easier to be Cat than to be Sansa or Alayne in moments like these, when he was in her. She could forget, in the dawn, that she had ever allowed this.

“Cat,” he says again as he pushes in deeper, and she rests one hand on the small of his back, trying to bring him closer. Sansa mews and cries and tries not to scold herself for the pleasure building in her body. He knows her better than any man, and he slides a hand between their bodies to prove it, his long fingers teasing her clit and making her squirm. Part of her wonders if he would put such effort into it if he did not see her as a dead woman, but the shocks of pleasure he sends through her body are enough the quell that train of thought. He raises gooseflesh on her body, turns her into a wanton creature, and if he must forget himself to do so than so be it.

She rolls her hips forward, pressing him in deeper, focusing on the pleasure. He brings her off soon enough, and she bites down so hard on her lip that she tastes blood that he promptly licks off.

He buries himself in her hair soon after, chanting her mother’s name, and she wraps her hand around his neck and ponders for how much longer she will allow his fantasy to continue.

The tremors are still overtaking her body when he collapses on top of her, breathless and still inside her. She draws circles on his skin and wonders if he ever sees her as the girl she is. Or if it will be like this till she tries of him--playing her dead mother, giving him what he never got in the past in exchange for her future.


End file.
